La Vie En Rose
by StupidityIsStupid
Summary: As a child, Arthur is loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, and easily entertained. As a teenager, he is quiet and reserved. As an adult, he is simply Arthur. Song is from Edith Piaf.
1. As a Child Arthur

A/N: Soooooooo...it has been FOREVER since I've uploaded anything. I've just been creeping around the fandoms, reading stories (but not commenting). I feel horrible. I need to make up for it by starting something new.

So (again), this isn't going to be a long story. A few chapters. I've recently discovered Inception (I've seen the movie, a few times), but only recently did I find the fandoms. (Eames/Arthur all the way. It's just...yes. Hot. Yesyesyes.)

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. Or Tom Hardy. Or Joseph Gordon-Levitt. If I did, they'd be tied to my bed with their shirts ripped open and belts unbuckled and...ahhhh. I'd be happy.  
>Second Disclaimer: I don't own Edith Piaf or her music, either. Listen to it all. It's beautiful.<p>

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><p>Arthur is eight.<p>

As a child, Arthur is the second youngest of three (or second oldest, depending on who you ask), with a brother three years older, and a sister four years younger. His brother is Marcus. His sister is Erica. They both look like their father, with golden hair and dark eyes and quiet personalities.

(He's not sure if it really counts, anymore, calling himself a middle child, because they're all dead. And sometimes he wonders if he himself isn't dead, as well. Dead, dead, dead, _dead_.)

He has dark hair, chopped unevenly because his mom can't afford to take him to a barber. His dad can, but there's no reason to ask. His eyes are brown. His body is lean, verging on unhealthy.

("You look like your dad. You have his eyes. And his dimples," his mom mumbles after she arrives home half-drunk one evening. His father's eyes are blue. Arthur tells a joke to see him smile. To see the dimples. His father glares. His mother cries.)

There are three basic rules in the household.

Don't speak. (Arthur speaks. His dad is silent. His mom cries.)

Don't leave without permission. (Arthur leaves. His dad is silent. His mom cries.)

Don't complain. (Arthur does, but he does it silently. His dad enforces this rule the most. His mother still cries.)

He looks like neither of his parents, and for the first five years of his life his siblings wreak havoc upon him by convincing him he's adopted simply because an extra person on an airplane ticket means that one of the seats is free (it was easy to believe this; five people in a two and a half bedroom house with only two people working (his brother and father, surprisingly.))

("But we've never gone on a trip," Arthur mentions. His sister laughs.)  
>("<em>You've<em> never gone on a trip," she corrects.)

It takes his mom forty minutes to calm him down and convince him to not run away. He asks why she cares about _him _if he was adopted. She scrubs a hand through her hair. "You're mine," she tells him, and offers no more explanation. He nods, as if _this_ is explanation enough. She sings.

As a child, Arthur is loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, and easily entertained by the shrieks of horror that escape the guest's mouths as his temporary pet snake leaves its confines to slither unholy-like around the ankles of second cousins, rich aunts, old uncles, and snooty grandparents.

He sticks by the excuse that it escaped, when his parents ask. He fails to mention that the confinement was simply his room, and he left the door open so the reptile might chance discovering the rest of the house.

(Later, with Inception and Cobb and Mal, he'll realize he's good at setting traps like that; where he only has to set out the pieces and the marks take themselves down by putting things together.)

As a child, Arthur tears things up and rips things down and throws tantrums to get what he wants. Most of the times he doesn't actually care about the object; he just wants attention.

(The cliché doesn't come upon him until he's seventeen and trying to babysit the neighbor's kids for extra cash to pay for his brother's medical bills after he crashes the only car on his way home from his girlfriend's. Arthur says nothing on the bus ride home from the hospital. He simply sets some blankets on the couch and fills a glass with water, which he places on the coffee table where his brother's crutches are propped.)

His mom prepares a game and invites his siblings to play with them. His father changes the channel on the television and doesn't speak.

As a child Arthur is paid no more attention to than the mustard stain on the arm of the couch. It's still there from when his dad throws the plate at the door his mother had closed on her way out. His sister tries to clean it, but instead seems to have pushed it further into the seams. His brother's blood still resides there, from the popped stitches, and even though it's not visible, he can still see it. The beer and gin and tequila aren't in the house, but Arthur can still smell them. (He knows it belongs to his mom. He's never seen his dad drink.)

(He doesn't sit on that side of the couch, not anymore.)

As a child, Arthur hears and sees and tastes the distress between his father and mother. It's blatantly obvious, yet he wonders if his siblings are witnessing the same thing. (They are.) He hears the plates shattering, the screams escalating, the resounding slaps, the pleaded "forgive me's". He sees the fine China scattered across the floor (some of it partially swept under the rug, which he'll discover the next day in the heel of his foot. He'll cry and listen as his mother hums lullabies while gently wiping the dripping snot from his upper lip. He won't look at her, but he knows she's crying, too, whispering that he's hers. He's _hers_. He's hers.) He tastes the tears and snot that run down his face and into his mouth to combine with the saliva. It's gross and uncomfortable and awkward and makes him wail harder.

("Jesus Christ! Maybe you could shut up so the kid wouldn't be such a fucking disgrace!")  
>("Don't patronize me about my actions you goddamn hypocrite.")<br>("Fucking bit-")

As a child, Arthur is a witness.

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><p>AN: As always, reviews are loved.  
>Peace and love.<p> 


	2. As a Teenager Arthur

A/N: Here's the next part in the installment. I plan on at least four more chapters (three for Arthur, and three for Eames).

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Sigh.

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><p>Arthur is seventeen.<p>

As a teenager, Arthur is quiet, withdrawn, and ignores the outside world. His hair is longer, and more unruly, but his eyes are just as brown as before and his dimples still exist, although he doesn't smile as often. (His father smiles occasionally. His eyes are still blue. His mother stills cries.)

As a teenager, his skin is pale and freckled with acne and scars. He's hungry all the time. For food, for sex, for love, for _attention_. His stomach is flat, his cheeks hollow.

("Why aren't you eating lunch?")  
>("I ate at home." A slice of bread and a piece of bologna. It couldn't even be truly classified as a sandwich.)<br>("Oh, okay.")

As a teenager, Arthur goes on his first date with the new girl at school. She doesn't know him, doesn't know his story, his actions, his life, and that scares him. It _terrifies_ him because he doesn't want to know how she'll react to the _truth_. They go to a run-down Thai restaurant close to his house. (She pays. He can't afford it.)

(She orders and waits for him. He says nothing, but points to one of the appetizers on the menu. He eats half. She finishes and orders dessert for the both of them. He doesn't indulge.)

The next month, she asks to meet his family. He obliges. She comes to dinner and he introduces her to everyone.

("That's Cynthia-my mom-that's my sister Erica, my brother Marcus, and that," he pauses and gestures to the man at the head of the table, "that is Theodore.")  
>("Your dad, I'm assuming," she laughs out.)<br>("No.")

The slap is expected, but not the person it comes from. He rubs his reddening cheek and glances at the source. His mom is holding her hand to her chest, as if that'll restrain her. (He is silent. His dad continues eating. His mom cries.)

(His girlfriend never comes back after that, and although they never officially break up, it's obvious what the end result was. He never wonders about her.)

As a teenager, Arthur learns about himself. Of his heritage, his history, his conception. He finds a picture of his mother with a man. They're both young, and standing in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. The man is smiling, large and wide with dimples. (Arthur looks in the mirror and smiles. Forces the dimples. He traces them with his fingertip. He frowns.) His mother is looking up at him in something akin to amazement. Love. Lust. Trust. _Fulfillment_.

As a teenager, Arthur meets his dad for the first time. He searches for him, makes observations related to him, and finally learns that he works as a sales representative at the local auto-body repair shop.

The bells above the door ring, and he's greeted by a middle-aged man with dark, greying hair. He stands in the doorway, not sure how to begin. The man smiles, dimples and all.

(His eyes are _brown_.)

("Can I help you find something?")  
>("…I'm Arthur.")<br>("Do you have an appointment, Arthur? Or would you like to schedule one? We're not usually able to do walk-ins.")  
>("No, um…no. Thank you. I'll—I'll just be leaving, now.")<br>("Alright. Have a nice day, Arthur.")  
>("Yeah…")<p>

He starts to leave, then rethinks things.

"What's your name?"

The man, (Dad, his mind tells him) points to his name-tag and then to a ballot area next to him. "I'm Aaron. It's always nice when someone puts in a good word for the people who work out front. The manager eats that stuff up." He chuckles.

Arthur nods. He quickly fills out a form and reads over it.

_**(Aaron was unable to help me solve my problem, but I wasn't expecting an answer.)**_

He folds it, and briefly wonders if his name is a slight contribution to the man behind the counter. He frowns. Arthur drops the slip into the box, where it rests gently on top of the other reviews.

(That evening, he confesses to the search. His father (Theodore, his mind tells him) yells. His mother cries. Arthur is silent. He cries, later, into his pillow and fervently hopes that his siblings can't hear him.)

(They can.)

As a teenager, Arthur experiences numbness. He drives his sister to softball games, and they bond over music and art. He sticks with her through all of her relationships, her heartbreaks, and for a moment he's jealous. He wants to experience that, because being heartbroken means that at some point love was experienced. He holds her and hums a lullaby. The house is silent.

(That night, he takes a handful of sleeping pills. He wakes up the next morning and cries, because he doesn't know what he wanted to happen.)

As a teenager, Arthur hears and sees and tastes loss. He hears the crunching of metal, the screams from his sister (cut short) and himself. He sees black, sees white, and sees muted colors. (Expect for the red. The red was so vibrant, real, pulsing, _alive_.) Arthur sees the snapped neck in the passenger seat. He tastes the blood in his mouth, tastes the red, and tastes the life inside of him.

The funeral is short, simple. The rest of the family is there (not Aaron, his mind tells him) and he doesn't care, doesn't know them, doesn't want to know them. He's wearing slacks and a nice t-shirt because the cast on his arm makes it difficult to wear a suit. There are hushed whispers amongst the people in the pews.

("Poor things. What a terrible tragedy.")  
>("I'm sorry for your loss.")<br>("I heard that the younger boy was driving. Arthur, right? How terrible.")  
>("We're so sorry.")<br>("Sorry.")  
>("My condolences.")<br>("Sorry.")  
>("Sorry.")<br>("Sorry.")

"_Sorry_," Arthur chokes out, and quickly leaves the church.

His fa—Theodore is silent. His mother cries.

When he makes it back, the service has finished and the pews are empty except for a few stragglers and Theodore and his mother and his brother. The trip home is quiet, save for the occasional sniffles from his mom.

(Marcus sits next to him in the backseat and gently squeezes his knee. Arthur glances over at him.)  
>("I love you," he whispers. (He thinks. He might have said, "Olive juice," or "I love Jews". He cries anyways.))<p>

His mother drinks more and when his brother finds her drowning in her own vomit a few weeks later, Arthur isn't surprised. He cries, though. Cries because she didn't _tell_ him anything. Cries because he doesn't want to cry. Cries because he used to be silent,_ stronger_ than _this_.

Theodore hits him for the first time, after the second funeral. (He's still unable to wear a suit.)

("Should've been _you_. Pathetic, _useless_, can't accept your own fate. _Bastard_ child.")  
>His brother yells, and packs two bags.<p>

("We're leaving.")

As a teenager, Arthur moves in with his brother. When the cast comes off, he tries on one of Marcus's suits. A hand-me-down from a cousin. It's too big, and he stops rolling up the sleeves when they just continue to fall down.

("If you would eat more, it would fit better.")  
>("I <em>do<em> eat.")  
>("<em>Crackers<em> and _water _don't count.")

He visits the graves. They aren't next to each other, but they're in the same vicinity. He's wearing Marcus's suit. He feels…empty.

(Marcus yells at him for leaving without telling him. For stealing the suit.)  
>("I didn't <em>steal<em> it." He strips down to his boxers and shoves the outfit towards his brother. "_Here_." He feels naked (he practically is), feels unsure of himself as his brother rakes his eyes over his body, his frame.)  
>(Marcus is quiet for a moment. He rests a hand on one of Arthur's shoulders. Bone and skin and maybe a little bit of muscle. "We should eat.")<br>("I love you," Arthur mouths at the ground, knowing fully that Marcus can't hear him. Marcus is silent. Arthur cries.)

As a teenager, Arthur is a victim.

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><p>AN: Thank you to ty (anonymous) and Kiraling for reviewing. It's always nice to find people who appreciate my work. ^_^


	3. As an Adult Arthur

A/N: So, I'm super happy because I got this chapter finished faster than I had thought I would. I'll do one more Arthur-based chapter (introducing the other characters and dreamsharing and such). After that I'll do four chapters for Eames, following the same layout as these. Don't worry, it'll all come together in the end.

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><p>Arthur is twenty-two.<p>

As an adult, Arthur is cool, calculating, observant. He mentally notes the smallest details of the biggest things, piecing things together like puzzles.

(He's never put a puzzle together, but he's sure he'd be _great_at it.)

He doesn't live with his brother anymore, but he still sees him, talks to him, and listens to him.

("I saw dad the other day.")  
>("Hm.")<br>("I'm thinking about asking my girlfriend to marry me.")  
>(A smile. "Good luck with <em>that<em>.")  
>(A playful shove and a knowing smirk. "You're an ass.")<p>

He doesn't go to college (but that's not important. Doesn't matter. It's the past. Don't ask, don't tell.), and it's not for a lack of trying. Or maybe it is. He doesn't really care either way if he furthers his education. High school is pointless. It isn't easy, isn't hard, isn't interesting. He passes his classes, graduates (without honors, but graduates nonetheless), and moves on with his life.

As an adult, Arthur searches for the one thing that makes his heart skip, his breathing labor, his stomach clench.

He doesn't find it, but he comes pretty damn close. Art. Sketches. Simple swirls of black and white and various shades of grey coming together in drawings consisting of disarrayed lines and shadows and sharp angles. He tries his hand at it, and finds that while he's far from perfection, he's better than he thought he'd be.

(Marcus doesn't understand. He tries to explain.)  
>("Why these pictures?" Marcus gestures to a recent one Arthur put together, a solitary building (that looks vaguely reminiscent of the Notre Dame) against the background of a blurry sky, the edges attempting (but failing) to give off a shimmering effect.)<br>("I don't know. I like the feel of them. I think…I'm not really sure. I'm good at it.")  
>("You are," he agrees, "but they're so…<em>empty<em>. Desolate. I feel lonely looking at them.")  
>("I think that's what I like. That there's so much room for growth. That there's the chance for something <em>new<em> to come out of it. I dunno. Does that make sense?")  
>("Sure. You should be a <em>philosopher<em>.")  
>(Arthur playfully punches his shoulder. "At least I don't draw stick figures on birthday cards because I'm too cheap to buy something nice.")<br>("Hey! Those guys are hard to draw! You have to take proportions into account," Marcus defends.)  
>("And color. Do I want this one to be black or <em>dark<em> black?")  
>(They laugh, even though Marcus doesn't understand, but that's okay, because Arthur doesn't either.)<p>

As an adult, Arthur listens to Marcus. Listens to him talk about not-dad, about his fiancé, his happy life, his qualms with the weather. (Arthur laughs and tells him he ought to move somewhere else, Hell perhaps? Marcus gripes and groans that he's not sure whether he wants his junk to burn off, so he'll have to give Arthur a rain check on that idea, but thanks for caring.)

His phone vibrates, dancing across the granite countertop until it ungracefully tips off the rounded edge and falls open on the floor. He answers ("Shit, goddammit, stupid phone, yes? Sorry, hello?") He's greeted by a dial tone, and a beep notifying him of a new voicemail. He checks it.

("Arthur, little brother. I ju-just wanted to call you to say I love you so much. Like, like a whole lot lot. Like how Audrey Hep-hip-hipburn loved Rhett the butler," Marcus sounds drunk, Arthur notes and continues listening. "'Essept I dun wan to fuck you, cuz that would be weird because you're my baby bro, but I'd buy you things from Tiffany's and I know that you'd appre-aper- you'd like them and you wouldn't throw dem in my face and yell at me and take the car so I'd havto walk all the way to the bar. Ssssh! I am having a conversion with Art. Art? Art thor? I have to go I love you bye.")

He wastes no time in redialing, and is greeted not by the background noise of a bustling bar, but by silence.

("What happened? Where are you?")  
>("I'm onna bus. She left.")<br>("What? Why?")  
>("Is too dark to walk and I dun have anywhere to go.")<br>("No, I meant, what happened? Why did she leave?")  
>("She loves 'im more, he loves 'er better. Sumthin' like that.")<br>("You're drunk.")  
>("Tipsy. Buzzed. Spent all my money.")<br>("How did you manage to get on the bus?")  
>("Someone felt sorry fer me.")<br>("Well, you're a sorry sort of fellow.")  
>(Silence, and Arthur is worried he scared him off. "I'm thinkin' about joining the Army. Gonna take some courses and see what it's about and get outtuv here.")<br>(He's leaving, he's leaving, ohgodohogodnohe's_leaving_pleasedon't_leave_me. "Good luck.")  
>("I love you." And this time he hears it, hears the words he wasn't sure about before, and he's back in the car, back at the funeral, feeling the warmth of Marcus's hand on his knee, on his shoulder, the late night talks, the jokes (not jokes not jokes) about being able to count his ribs, and oh God, he's <em>really <em>going to leave him, because Marcus doesn't lie, doesn't half-ass things. The _only_ thing that's solid in his life is _crumbling_ and he's _helpless_.)  
>("I know." He's greeted with silence, a soft snore. "Love you," he whispers, and presses end.)<p>

The apartment is silent. Arthur is silent. Off in the distance, a car alarm wails. And even though she isn't there, he can hear his mom crying.

As an adult, Arthur steps foot in a bar for the first time. He orders drinks, any drinks, whatever is good, cheap, and sips them slowly. By the third, he's chugging and breathing them in and he can't get enough because he's not numb yet. He feels giddy, but sad, and dizzy, and weird and he doesn't want to feel anything. Just wants to be numb.

There's a blur of burnt orange and paisley and plaid and suddenly someone is sitting next to him. He has a pretty face, and Arthur doesn't fail to tell him this.

("You hava pretty face.")  
>("Much appreciated, darling." He's English, or else really good at accents. Terrible at clothing, though. Disgusting.)<br>("I'm not gay.")  
>("Never said you were. Neither am I.")<br>("Your shirt's disgustin'.")  
>("As is your attitude, dear. But that didn't stop you from talking to me, did it?")<p>

As an adult, Arthur meets a horribly dressed Englishman in a half-empty bar with his stomach full of alcohol and his mind full of memories. After a few moments, he realizes the man is still talking.

("You haven't heard anything I've said, have you?")  
>("Yeah, sure. I have.")<br>("Why am I here?")  
>("To distract twenty-two year olds from feeling numb with your atrocious outfit that makes me feel like putting a bullet through both of our heads because it makes me want to hurl and puking sounds awful right now and obviously you're delusional if you think it's okay to go anywhere in that get-up?")<br>("Sorry darling for putting on the closest thing and coming down here to forget things.")  
>("What are you forgetting?")<br>("Myself. You?")  
>("Myself.")<p>

They're both silent. The other patrons buzz around Arthur like flies, mosquitos, goddamn gnats. He wants to slap them away, squish them all until he can't feel anything anymore.

("Ow! Bloody hell, what was that for?")  
>("Hm? Wha?")<br>("You hit me, you fuck.")  
>("Sorry. Imma little drunk.")<br>("I'd say so. Let's get you out of here.")

He allows himself to be dragged out of the bar (noting dully that the Englishman throws some money on the bar to pay. Arthur says nothing about it.), to the alley, to the bus stop just down the block where he finally heaves and releases the past three hours' worth of beer and rum and vodka on the sidewalk (and quite possibly the man's shoes, if his cries of indignation are anything to go by. "Bloody fuck! Christ, mate!") He falls asleep (passes out) to the whispers of the Englishman and wakes up to the aggravated shouts of the bus driver.

("Where do you need to get off?")  
>("Oh, um…" he looks around. "Here's fine.")<p>

As an adult, Arthur backtracks and walks to his apartment, less than a mile away in the opposite direction from where he was dropped off. Hands shake, fingers fumble, keys scratch against the door (and he notes that his wallet feels lighter) and soon he's bathed in the unnatural darkness of his room. He flips on the light and grimaces.

As an adult, Arthur pulls out the suit he borrowed (stole) from his brother. It doesn't fit right. It's baggy (he really should eat something) and still too long, but it fits better than before. He drapes a red tie around his neck, too drunk to bother tying it properly, and stands in front of a full length mirror.

He wills himself to smile. He sees his dimples, his brown eyes, his pale skin with bony elbows and bony knees and long, nimble fingers.

_("You have his eyes. And his dimples.")_

He frowns. He sees Aaron (France and his mom and _fulfillment_), sees Theodore (not dad), sees Erica (red, red, so much red), and sees Marcus (leaving leaving leaving).

Standing (leaning against the countertop; he's still drunk, tipsy) next to the mirror, Arthur still feels. He _is_not numb, not yet.

He throws a glass at the reflective glass. The cup shatters, but the mirror stands strong. His reflection stands strong.

But reflections don't tell the whole story. Reflections don't show what's behind a person, what's inside of them. They don't tell who the person is; they simply verify who they are not.

As an adult, Arthur is not Theodore. Arthur is not Aaron. And most of all, Arthur is not _Arthur_.

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><p>AN: Continued thanks for the reviews, the readings, etc.


	4. Mal and Dom Arthur

A/N: Sooooo, I lied. I originally planned on this being an eight-chapter story, but that's not going to be the case anymore. I'm going to use the next few chapters to start introducing the other characters and Inception and dream-sharing and such. Please, bear with me. Eames' story won't be occurring until later.

This is just a short introduction to Dom and Mal. Short chapter, yes, but I didn't want to go to far with it.

Enjoy!

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><p>Twenty-five years old. Twenty-five years since his mother was with Aaron (<em>dad<em>), eight years since his mom and Erica and the red and the crying (he just wants to be numb, again), three years since Marcus.

And Arthur, Arthur still isn't sure who he is, who he sees, who he wants to _be_ (numb numb numb). He has Arthur's body, his physique of pale skin and jutting bones, but he doesn't see himself. The mirror is simply a looking glass into another dimension, another world where it's easy to convince yourself you won't make a difference. And Arthur is a stranger. Arthur _sees _a stranger.

He runs his hand over the countertop (pristine, spotless, so _smooth_), and turns to the cupboards. Not bare, but lacking. His stomach is silent; it has given up the fight years ago. He should eat something, he thinks. He _thinks _he's hungry. He doesn't know. It all feels the same now (except when he sees himself, that's the only time he feels numb, empty).

He finds himself walking to the store (he really _really _should eat something), just to grab a few things. Crackers, bread, processed meat. He can't get too much, since he has to carry it all back. (He doesn't need much anyways, still has cupboards full of stuff, stuff he doesn't want, doesn't like).

At twenty-five, Arthur meets a young woman with light skin and short, dark hair and piercing eyes and the smallest of frowns on her face (God, she's so pretty when she frowns) when they run into each other turning the same corner. He wants to laugh at the cliché, but only manages to muster an apology while he pushes himself off the ground and grabs his items.

He reaches down to assist her (because he's a gentleman and she's so pretty, gorgeous, lovely) and she pulls herself up using his hand for support.

Her touch is soft, yet he can feel it travel beneath his skin and into his bones. Apparently she can, too.

("Mon Dieu! So skinny! I can feel your bones." She sounds French, the accent heavy and rolling off her tongue like a thick honey. So pretty, amazing.)  
>(He gestures to his basket. "Fast metabolism," he lies. "I'm getting some things, now.")<br>(She shakes her head frantically. "Non, non, non. Darling, you must eat more. J'ai été là. I've_ been _there.")

Arthur thanks her courteously and apologizes again.

("Non ma chérie. Come, come, come. What is your name?")  
>("Arthur. Are you French?")<p>

It's a beautiful transition, distraction from what she was going to say. She smiles, laughs (honey and silk and butterflies in his stomach, his diaphragm, his throat) and says yes, yes, she's from Versailles, her name is Mallorie, please call her Mal, she's here with her family.

("Venez! Come, meet my family!")

Before he can deny this request, she has his wrist in her palm and is dragging him joyously back down the aisle.

("I don't thi—")

She laughs, taps a man on the shoulder.

("Mon cheri, look at what I picked up.")

The man turns and squints at Arthur. He reaches out a hand, and Arthur shakes it, still watching the man. The man who is _still _unnaturally squinting at him.

("Dominick Cobb," he scowls. "Dom." Two children are hiding behind him.)

Arthur can't help but to chuckle.

Dom smiles, and insists that his parents were not farmers. He doesn't even like corn. He's still glaring. It makes Arthur want to apologize.

("Sorry.")  
>("Sweetheart, you're scaring le garcon. Souriez, l'amour. You look like you're <em>constipated<em>. James, Philippa, come out. Say hello.")

They do. Both with light hair, like their father. Their giddiness must come from their mother.

(He's vaguely reminded of Marcus, Erica, Theodore. It's so surreal, in some ways.)

("Are you real?")

The glaring man laughs, and his eyes light up (still squinting, doesn't that hurt?) and asks for Arthur's name.

("Un adepte de Thor," Mallorie answers. Dom smiles.)  
>("Arthur. Good to meet you. I didn't realize my wife had a brother.")<p>

He looks at Mallorie. Mal. She could be. His sister, that is. They look alike. She's French. (Notre Dame and fulfillment and love and lust.)

She could be.

He wants her to be.

But she isn't.

Arthur is twenty-five and doesn't believe a thing the world has to tell him. 

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><p>AN: I don't speak French. I spent the better part of my life believing 'oui' was spelled 'wi'. I must thank Google Translate for the help. (I don't know why I used a translator. My friend IS French. -.-)

Rough Translations (I apologize for any mistakes):

Mon Dieu: My goodness  
>J'ai été là: I've been there<br>Non ma chérie: No my darling  
>Venez: Come<br>Mon cheri: Sweetheart  
>Le garcon: The boy<br>Souriez, l'amour: Smile, love  
>Un adepte de Thor: A follower of Thor (the meaning of Arthur's name)<p> 


	5. Je Ne Regrette Rien Arthur

A/N: My goodness, I'm getting these chapters up much faster than I thought I would. =D I'm a very happy person. Enjoy!

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><p>Arthur is still twenty-five. Still twenty-five and still in the grocery store and still standing awkwardly with a loaf of Wonder Bread and a packet of Kraft cheese singles in his hands.<p>

He apologizes again for his clumsiness ("Nonsense, dear. Don't apologize for being human.") and goes to pay for his food.

It's eleven o'clock and raining and Arthur is walking across the street with a mile left until he reaches the apartment (not his, doesn't feel like home, he thinks he wants that) when the bag soaks through and a simple adjustment of his hands causes it to rip into unattractive pieces while the food tumbles into the nearest puddle.

("_Shit_.")

And, in just a snap of the fingers, Murphy's Law has taken effect. He bends down to collect the items (dizzy, dizzy, dizzy) and on the trip back up, everything blurs for a few seconds.

(Just got up too fast. Blood rush. He's fine. He's fine. He'll _be_ fine.)

The blare of the car horn is just unexpected enough that it causes Arthur to start, and then fall over into a heap. He holds his head in his hands and groans. (Hurts hurts hurts oh_god_myhead makeitstop_please_.)

There's a brief commotion as the driver of the vehicle steps out.

("Darling! Darling, it's _Arthur_. Arthur, Arthur, are you _hurt_? Laissez-moi vous aider. Let me help you.")

Mallorie from the store frets over him in French and Dominick halfheartedly pulls her back to allow Arthur a chance to breathe and leave (escape, get out of there before he says something stupid or calls her 'mom' because she looks like her and she's French, but she's not her and she's still _French_. And Dominick, he wants to call him Theodore (not dad, though. Never dad.) because the glare is similar (except for that _goddamned_ squint) and he's quiet and not French and stiffly postured and he's reminded of home (not home, but as close as he's ever been (no, scratch that. Marcus. Home. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. He wants _Marcus_.)))

("I'm fine," he repeats, mumbles, but apparently she can't hear him because she's now dragging him towards the car.)  
>("Mal, <em>Lord<em>. Leave the man alone. It's one thing to grope a man in front of me, but to do it in public?")  
>(She laughs wholeheartedly. "I'm sure a <em>fine<em> young man such as Arthur has been groped before. Beau cul." She winks. "And _you_ shouldn't be complaining about exhibitionism, mon amour. Not when your pare—")  
>("Sssh! We don't speak of <em>that.<em> _Ever_.")  
>("Arthur, dear, you <em>must<em> come home with us! S'il vous plaît! All skin and bones and _pas de viande_. What is this? Êtes-vous végétarien? No meat in your diet? Do you even eat?")  
>("I do eat.")<br>("Processed bread and cheese don't count," Dom pipes in.)  
><em><br>("I _do _eat.")  
>("<em>Crackers _and _water _don't count.")_

He wants to cry, scream, hit something in frustration, so he's does the next best thing. He laughs. Hollow and empty and tears are stinging the corners of his eyes and he's _laughing_. Mallorie and Dominick are frowning slightly, and Mallorie sets her hand on his knee.

("I almost liked it more when you were frowning, cher.")

And he's still laughing because the situation is just so fucked up. He can see his whole family in them and they aren't his family and yet…yet they're acting like they are.

("Get in the car." He should say no, but he can't. Can't deny the woman (or the man, for that matter).)  
>("You don't know me.")<br>("You're Arthur.")

Yes, yes. He's Arthur.

("I wish I could adopt you," Mallorie jokes.)  
>(Dominick scowls. "I'm considering a divorce.")<br>("_Nonsense_, darling. Keep driving. Where do you live?")  
>(Arthur points to the next cross street. "There.")<p>

And that should be the end of that, but it's not. She's walking him to his door and waiting as he unlocks it and before he can say goodbye, she's stepping into the apartment.

("Oh, um," Arthur articulates.)  
>("Dear, you didn't think we'd just leave you, did you? Dom, honey, go find the poor man some medication. You have medication?" Arthur stares. "Pour votre tête? For your head? Yes?")<br>("Uh, yeah. Aspirin. Underneath the sink.")  
>("Dom! Aspirin?")<p>

There's a brief scuffle, and Dominick is back in the living room holding out a glass of water and three pills for Arthur. He's silent as he surveys them, hums noncommittally, and swallows them down.

("What is this?" the woman asks.)

She's holding up one of Arthur's sketches, the one of a forest of trees. He tried to make them look like they've been burned down, with smoke still wafting from the ground.

("Did you draw this?" Dominick inquires.)  
>("Uh, yeah. I, um, I did. It's not very good." He's not sure why he's ashamed. It's a good picture. He knows it. It's one of Marcus's favorites.)<br>("It's beautiful," Mallorie purrs.)  
>("It's very nice," her husband agrees. "A little dreary, but it has a sort of…dark beauty.")<br>(Mallorie spies his pencils, the colors he doesn't use (blues and purples and yellows and reds) and grabs a bright green. "Would…would it be alright if I did something? Small, it'll be small. In the corner, perhaps?")  
>(Anything for her, yes, please, whatever you want. "Sure.")<p>

She studies the picture, nods to herself, and briskly works. She shows the drawing to Dominick, who says nothing, and passes it to Arthur.

It's nothing special. A few green lines at the bottom of the sketch. And he then _sees_ what they are. Sprouts. New growth. Life continued.

("It's terrible. Je suis désolé.")  
>("No. It's…It's just…<em>thank you<em>.")

(Thank you for caring and for being there and for taking advantage of my insecurities.)

She smiles large and Dominick smiles and Arthur can't help but to be infected and _he_ smiles, too.

("What do you do?" Dominick (Dom, Dom, call him Dom) asks.)  
>("Nothing. I sketch. Listen to music.")<br>("What music?" Mallorie (Mal, Mal, mom, Mal) wants to know.)  
>("Classical, mainly. Foreign. French (Mal lights up at this). Edith Piaf, a lot. I think that's what's in the stereo.")<p>

She waltzes over to the entertainment system to turn it on and press play, and the soothing sounds of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien fill the small room. She twirls to look at Dom (lovingly, so lovingly and he promises himself he won't get between that) and then at Arthur (and it's not love, but it's pretty damn close).

("Dominick Cobb. Come dance with me," she orders.)

He does. They do. And Arthur watches them sway together as he leans against the countertop, Dom's steps slightly awkward and Mal's voice floating through the room as she sings along.

_("Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.")_

I have no regrets, Arthur thinks. He tilts his head and offers the smallest of upturned lips.

New growth. New life.

A new beginning.

Arthur is twenty-five and still doesn't know who he is, but he's ready to find out.

* * *

><p>Translations:<br>Laissez-moi vous aider: Let me help you  
>Beau cul: Beautiful ass<br>S'il vous plaît: Please  
>Pas de viande: No meat on your bones<br>Êtes-vous végétarien?: Are you vegetarian?  
>Cher: Dear<br>Pour votre tête?: For your head?  
>Je suis désolé: I'm sorry<p>

_Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien_: A song from Edith Piaf, translates into 'no, nothing from nothing, no, I have no regrets.' 


	6. As a Child Eames

A/N: Eames's story! Don't worry, this isn't the end of Arthur. The next few chapters will be based off of Eames, though.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Eames is twelve.<p>

As a child, Eames is mischievous, rollicking, and ill-mannered. He lives with both of his parents in a large house in London. He goes to a boarding school less than a mile away.

He's light skinned and brown-haired with dark, wide eyes. Innocent eyes, eyes of a child. He's only twelve, so he still has remnants of baby fat, slightly chubby cheeks that his grandmother likes to pinch.

("I _hate_ when she does that, Amelia," he admits to his nanny as she helps him change for Thanksgiving dinner. "It _pisses_ me off.)  
>("<em>Language,<em> Mr. Eames," Amelia admonishes. "I doubt that your grandmother would want to touch you if she knew you had such a vulgar mouth.")  
>("That's a great idea! Thank you Millie!")<p>

Thanksgiving that year is quite a treat (in the most sarcastic manner possible). Oh, it starts out just fine. Eames watches his mother places the still half-frozen turkey in the oven. (They were going to have a goose, originally, because they're old-fashioned in some senses, but that plan was thrown out the window when the goose was.)

("Eames! Child! What are you _doing_?")  
>("Fredrick <em>Millington <em>said that geese can't fly, and I wanted to prove him wrong.")

As a child, Eames becomes friends (acquaintances) with Fredrick Millington, a boy two years older who lives with his brother, Timothy.

Eames is pretty sure Tim does something that's illegal, but he's ten. He doesn't know and doesn't care.

Eames's father teaches him how to shoot.

(Later, when Eames is a teenager, Timothy teaches Fredrick and Eames how to shoot _up_.)

As a child, Eames witnesses his first fire. He's walking home from school when he hears he sees the smoke. He's curious, so he goes to investigate, and he comes across a small girl staring at a one-story house that's engulfed in flames.

("Thas my howse," the girl points out. Her left front tooth is missing. "Thas mine.")  
>("Bloody hell!" he hears an older woman scream. "Claudia! Get away from there!")<p>

The girl is snatched up and Eames is left alone.

As a child, Eames watches as the smoke darkens and the flames lick the sky, and, happy with the taste, return to the roof and brag to the other golden sparks until they're all growing and reaching higher and further out, attempting to sense what their leader tasted. He ignores the firemen—just shadows—trying to stifle their freedom, and sees a few embers jump at them in revolt. They're too far away, though, and they flicker softly as they hit the wet ground before dying off with a silent sizzle. Angered, the rest of the flames want to let them know they haven't forgotten, and lash out towards the shadows, until, one by one by one, they are defeated. Sorrow mixed in with a cold, wet spray slows the survivors until, finally, a small pile of embers, trying to hold on, are extinguished into the dirt.

Eames is mesmerized.

("Where were you?" his father asks when he arrives home later than usual. "You smell like smoke.")  
>("There was a fire," Eames tells him.)<br>("Where?" his mother inquires.)  
>("By the school. It was huge and really bright and hot and there were fire people there who hooked up big hoses to put it out and it was really hot and I think I got some in my eye," he blabbers on happily. "It was <em>so cool<em>!")

Amelia assists Eames in changing into clean clothes and his parents determine it's time to get Eames a hobby.

They sign him up for an art class.

(He skips and hangs out with Freddy, instead.)

Freddy steals cigarettes from his brother one evening when Eames comes over. He shows Eames how to use the lighter, and hands him a cigarette.

(Eames flicks the lid open and closed, watching as the bright orange flame appears and disappears.)

("Light mine," Freddy requests. "Tim says that you can't be popular unless you can smoke in a really cool way." He sucks on the end of the fag and attempts to blow the smoke out of his nose. He snorts and a coughing fit erupts. "Bloody fuck, that burns.")

(Eames says nothing, still fascinated by the flame hidden inside the Zippo lighter. His cigarette still dangling from his fingers, unlit.)

The boys quickly escape the area when they hear the telltale sirens of a police car. Freddy inhales one more time, coughs, and crushes the offending item with his foot. Eames pockets the lighter and forgets about it until that evening when he's changing into his pajamas. He buries it underneath his socks in the back of a drawer, but not before flicking it open and closed one more time.

(He briefly considers giving it back to Freddy, but quickly forgets about that idea when he wakes up the next day.)

(Later in life, Eames will tell people the first time he stole anything was when he was seventeen (a bottle of liqueur and two packs of cigarettes), but he knows that the Zippo lighter is the real truth.)

As a child, Eames sets his first fire.

(He doesn't mean to. It's an accident, honestly. Please forgive him. He meant no harm.)

(But the beauty is so breathtaking.)

He's watching Amelia cook breakfast (griddle cakes and bacon), when he decides to be honest.

(Somewhat.)

He pulls out the Zippo and shows it to the nanny.

("Eames, child, where did you get that?")  
>("Found it.")<br>("You ought to put that away _right now_," she scolds. "If that gets _anywhere_ near this grease, we'll have a _very _big problem on our hands.")

Eames pockets the lighter, frowning.

As a child, Eames is left home alone for less than an hour while Amelia goes to get groceries, and his parents are at work.

An hour. Less than.

A lot can happen.

(A lot _does _happen.)

He throws a couple of pieces of bacon (so much fat, the best part) onto a hot pan, and watches as they sizzle and the grease pops and the aroma wafts. He takes out his (not his, liar) lighter and flicks it open.

The flame burns just as bright as before. He touches his forefinger to it, and pulls it back quickly when the pain becomes too much. He sucks the appendage into his mouth and curses slightly. ("Bollocks.")

As a child, Eames is an experimenter. He has theories and ideas and dreams and he tests them out and, after everything is said and done, considers the consequences and reaps the benefits.

He points the open flame into the pan and shoves the lighter back into his pocket.

The fire appears quickly, flames exploding into the air. Eames turns on the sink and pulls the faucet hose towards the burner to put it out. He's had his fun.

(Later, he'll know how stupid, idiotic, fucking _senseless_ that idea is, but for now he's twelve and sated and doesn't know any better.)

(The fire spreads quickly.)

Flames catch onto curtains and the hardwood flooring and singe the edge of his jacket, and it's so hot, _too_ hot, he can't breathe, and it's _perfect_, better than he ever imagined.

("_Eames_!")

He turns and stares at Amelia with wide-eyes (not so childlike, not so innocent anymore).

He says nothing, but cocks his head to the side and ogles the sight before him.

(Flames, fire, bright, hot, so pretty and unreal and _dangerous_ and _magnificent_.)

She pulls him outside and they watch as the fire destroys the home Eames had grown up in.

(Someone else calls for help, because Amelia is trying to get in touch with his parents and Eames…Eames is still mesmerized.)

("Is tha' yur howse?" a small voice pipes up beside him.)  
>(He looks down and sees the little girl from before. She's missing both of her front teeth now. He nods. <em>"Yes."<em>)

His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, and he unconsciously rubs his sore finger against his pocket where the lighter resides.

His lips curve upwards.

As a child, Eames is both a witness and a participant.

* * *

><p>R and R!<br>Peace and Love,  
>SIS<p> 


	7. As a Teenager Eames

A/N: Augh. It's been too long! Dx I'm still working on this story, don't worry. I just needed a break from all the angst. Hence me writing the more humorous and light-hearted fics. This isn't a very long chapter, but at least it's completed.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Eames is sixteen.<p>

As a teenager, Eames is polite, loving, and well-kept.

(At least, in front of his parents and Amelia. They deserve that much.)

He helps his mother with meals, aids Amelia in shopping, and joins his father in weekly poker games with his buddies. He offers drinks to guests and does his own laundry because he knows his mother works odd shifts at the health clinic and likes to come home to a clean house.

He doesn't mind doing any of it (he doesn't love it, but who does? It's more because his family means the world to him and he would do anything for them).

Sometimes, on poker night, he's allowed to invite some of his own friends over, to hang out or gamble alongside his dad. (They don't gamble with money, because money is tight and IOUs are taken much more seriously. Instead, they trade small personal items. Eames has lost three poker chips, a pair of gloves, a deck of playing cards (minus two kings and a joker, which were missing originally, but found a week after he lost the deck), and a lighter (not The Lighter, though). In return, he gained a tattered scarf, a different pair of gloves, and a motorcycle kickstand.)

He laughs, knowing that someone, somewhere, has a bike that won't stand up straight. His sense of humor is…unique, to an extent.

As a teenager, Eames is crude, improper, and rugged.

(At least, in front of his friends. And Fredrick. They don't deserve any better.)

Eames is sixteen when Timothy shows him and Freddy how to properly shoot up. It's too tight and the room is stuffy and smells strongly enough of weed that they could probably get a contact high that's just as strong as the real thing. He dislikes the pinch of the needle jabbing under his skin, and the feel of something foreign entering his bloodstream. He never asks himself why he does it.

(But he does wonder, sometimes.)

Eames throws up afterwards, whether from the dizziness or the guilt, he really doesn't know.

Fredrick asks for another hit.

("Eames.")  
>("Hm?")<br>("You're a bloody _fucktard_, you know?")  
>("Oh?")<br>("Stealing shit. You owe me my lighter, dick.")  
>("Ah.")<br>("And I want _my_ lighter, not some bloody _replacement_.")  
>("Ok.")<p>

Fredrick passes out after that, and doesn't ask about the lighter the next day.

It's not the first time he forgets.

(It's not the last time Eames puts himself into that situation.)

Eames is sixteen when his mom is diagnosed.

("Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis," the doctor speaks lowly.)

(Treatment, expenses, diagnosis, expensive, no cure, terminal, _expensive_, money, money, money, _we'resosorry_, blah blah _blahblahblah_.)

Eames is sixteen when he steals again. It's for a good reason, really. Honestly. He means it for the best. They _need_ the money.

(He doesn't want her to die. Never ever ever _ever_.)

They can't afford proper treatment. It's getting harder for her to breathe, to talk, to move. Eames stops going to school. He comes up with reasons (excuses). He was skipping most of the time anyways. It was too easy. They didn't challenge him. They can't afford it.

They shouldn't _be_ _able_ to afford_ it_, and yet not be able to pay for his mother's treatment.

It's not fair.

("It's not _fair_, Millie.")  
>("I know, Eames, child.")<br>("Don't tell me it's God's will.")  
>("Then I won't. She loves you very much.")<br>("Thanks.")

He's sixteen when he does the one thing that will haunt him for the rest of his life. His mom is staying at the hospital for the weekend, his father is asleep, Amelia is staying with her family. And Eames has an idea.

(Most stupidity starts that way, after all.)  
>(But is it stupid if it's meant for the best?)<p>

He carefully sneaks out of his room that evening, purposefully avoiding the creakier areas of the house, and finds his way into the studio. He doesn't even have to turn on the light to find what he's looking for. A small wooden box, filled with trinkets. Necklace chains, a few pendants, tickets to that one concert no one really remembers, hair ties, a pocket watch that's cracked, but still works.

He grabs one of the pendants (turquoise, he thinks), and slips it into his pocket, next to The Lighter.

(No one will miss it.)

(Except they do.)

After he pawns it off (it's easier because _technically_ it's his, so fewer questions are asked. He gets about four hundred dollars for it. Not much when you look at the big picture, but _Christ_. It's so much more than they had before.), he hands to money to his dad.

("Where did you get this?")  
>("I worked odd jobs around town. We need money for mum.")<br>("Hm.")

He doesn't think his dad knows. He knows he's lying, but he's not sure what about.

(At least, that's what Eames hopes.)

His mom finds out. She's looking through the box and simply says two words.

(Wheezes.)

("_Eames_, darling.")  
>("I love you.")<br>("I know.")  
>("I don't want you to die.")<br>("_Everyone_ dies, dear.")  
>("Not you. Not like this.")<br>("I'm sorry.")

She apologizes for something out of her control, so Eames feels that he should be able to fess up to something in _his_.

(He can't.)

(She dies anyways.)

He's beside her bed when it happens. They're not touching, not speaking, not blinking, not even breathing at times.

She reaches out to hold his hand.

He flinches.

(Not because he's scared, goddammit. Her hands are cold. Shut up.)  
>(Please.)<p>

She holds tight to him, brings his hand to her lips, and offers him a chaste kiss on his knuckles.

His teeth chatter.

(Not because he's going to cry. This room is too cold. Someone should turn up the heat.)  
>(Please.)<p>

("Be strong," she whispers.)  
>("Christ, mum," he says brokenly. "Hypocrite.")<br>(She smiles, knows he's not serious, and kisses him one more time.)

(Please _please_ please.)

He kneels beside her for the next five hours, not moving once, despite the ache in his knees, his joints, his arms. He kneels beside the bed when the doctors come in to turn off the machines, to unhook the lines running into her body, to change the sheets on the bed.

Eames is sixteen when he truly cries for the first time.

As a teenager, Eames realizes that life isn't fair.

As a teenager, Eames learns that you have to take what you want, before it's taken from you.

As a teenager, Eames becomes a shadow of himself.

* * *

><p>AN: Angst! Woo! I'm having a blast writing Eames' parts, although it's harder than I thought it would be.

Read, review, favorite, alert. Whatever floats your boat.

Thanks for reading!

Peace and Love,  
>SIS<p> 


	8. As an Adult Eames

A/N: Another chapter! Woo! I didn't get it up as quickly as I'd hoped. This chapter. Killed. Me. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I rewrote it a million and one times. I'm more excited for the next chapter, whence Eames shall be introduced to some main characters. CoughArthurcoughcough. (But you didn't hear that from me.)

Fairly short chapter.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Eames is twenty-two.<p>

As an adult, Eames steals, gambles, and cheats his way through life. Sometimes even at the same time. He's quick on the offensive, slow to defend, and a good briber.

(It comes naturally, he supposes, what with having to deal with Freddy all the time.)

He's out, celebrating his birthday (that happened three months ago, Frederick, you inconsiderate arse), at the nearest pub with a group of people he supposes he calls friends.

(They're definitely not family, though, that much he's certain of.)

They're sporadically placed around the large room, mingling with other guests. Eames can hear snippets of conversation drifting around, but there's one voice that catches his attention.

("Birthday boy," Freddy coos. "We've got a surprise for you outside.")

And, okay, Eames doesn't really care for surprises. But whatever. It's his not-birthday, so he deserves to have some fun.

He downs the rest of his drink, and follows Freddy outside. He's led around the back, where the skeleton of a house, not completely built, is residing. Three other guys, and one girl, are sitting around. Smoke is wafting around the beams, and Eames blanches.

("Jesus, _really_?")

The girl looks up at them, and smiles at Freddy.

("You got what we want?" the first douche asks.)

(_DNO_, Eames calls him. Douche Number One.)

("Depends, is that Buttercream?")

(_Buttercream_, Eames thinks.)

("You got me a _stripper_?")  
>("Hooker, actually," Douchebag Number Two answers. (DNT.))<br>(Eames glares at him. "I wasn't talking to you, was I?")

DNO stands up, wobbles, and falls over in a fit of aggravated laughter. The others giggle at his misfortune. He rubs his knee and asks Freddy if he brought the stuff.

The stuff. How cliché.

Freddy apologizes for only having one needle available, but don't worry, he was able to jack a lot of _The Stuff _from his brother.

Eames watches as Freddy walks over to the group, handing out small baggies. He motions for Eames to come join them.

("Eames, mate, come over here and have some fun for once. It's your birthday.")  
>(Eames rubs his temple. "Bloody fuck, Fred. You're such a dumbass.")<br>(Freddy's eyes burn bright. "Fuck you. I risked my life to give you this.")

Eames laughs. He scans the people. DNO is now pulling Buttercream into his lap, saying something along the lines of "you can cream my butter any day," and Eames is fairly certain he's going to be sick.

("You risked nothing. You really think I want _this_?")

DNT looks over at the DNO and they nod.

("I don't," Eames starts, "I don't even _know_ you.")  
>("Oh, don't be shy," Freddy coaxes.)<br>("You know what I fucking mean, Frederick. You take me to a pub to get drunk, then you tell me you bought me a hooker—")  
>("—Traded, actually. I traded for her.")<p>

(Yes, _that _makes things better.)

Eames doesn't drop his glare. He does, however, turn on his heel and begins to walk away.

("Hey! The hell is your problem?")

Eames continues walking back to the pub (where there are witnesses, where someone might see how fucked up this all is), without a second glance back.

Until, of course, Douchebag Numero Three decides to pipe in.

("If you're not gonna take creamy thighs," he motions to the hooker, needle halfway to (from?) her arm, "home tonight, then I call dibs.")

There's a chorus of "fuck you" from the others.

("Whatever," Eames mutters. "It's not even my birthday, arse.")

Freddy kicks a rock at him, which doesn't hurt Eames so much as it annoys him, but doesn't do anything else.

(Whatever.)

As an adult, Eames walks away for the first time.

He drives home (he's really not drunk. He had one beer. He's starving though. Takeout sounds atrocious, but his fridge is empty.) as the clouds form overhead and the street lights turn on.

He's watching re-runs of _I Dream of Jeannie _and eating Thai right out of the boxes knowing that his roommate won't appreciate the stale smell of cardboard the next day.

(He doesn't really care, though. It's his apartment. He can do whatever the bleeding hell he wants.)

His phone rings, and the number that comes up is unlisted, so he wages a short battle with himself before he loses and answers.

("The hell is your problem?")  
>("Frederick.")<br>("The fuck, Eames? Why can't you be appreciative of shit? I do so much for you.")  
>("You supply me with drugs and hookers I don't want <em>or<em> need.")  
>("Oh," Freddy snorts unappealingly, "Because you get laid <em>all<em> _the_ _time_, right?")  
>(Eames glowers through the phone. "Fuck you.")<br>(The line is silent for a few moments. "Jesus. You're a _fag_, aren't you?")

Eames doesn't hang up. He waltzes into the kitchen, turns the dish disposal on, and holds the phone over the drain.

("Buggering fuck, Eames! Are you trying to deafen me? Is that your type? Retarded fags?")  
>("Oh, don't flatter yourself. I don't go for guys like you.")<br>("So, you are a queermo. It makes sense now. No wonder your mom offed herself.")  
>("She had a terminal disease, dumb shit. I'm hanging up now.")<br>("You owe me, dick.")  
>(Eames' finger hovers over the End Call button. "I don't owe you shit.")<br>("You owe me my lighter. And for the Butts of Cream or whatever the hell her idiotic name is.")  
>("Buttercream. And I don't. <em>Owe<em>. _You_. _Shit_. I threw out that lighter years ago.")

(That's not true, but no one needs to know that. No one needs to know that he sometimes spends his days learning about different fires and practices starting and putting them out. (He doesn't want a repeat of burning down the house.) No one needs to know how it relaxes him and calms him down and makes him feel alive.)

He hangs up before Frederick can say another word.

And then, in a fuck-it-all move, he buys a one-way ticket to the United States.

As an adult Eames is pretty sure he knows who he is (not gay, he's sure, but he can't be sure) and he doesn't know what he wants.

And, as an adult, he'd rather figure his shit out anywhere except here.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm going to try to get chapter nine up by Monday evening, since I'll be busy this weekend getting my groove on at a banquet.

Read, review, etc.

Peace and Love,  
>SIS <p>


	9. Introductions Eames

A/N: ONLY ONE MORE CHAPTER OF THIS STORY! AUUUGH! I'm so sad to see it finished, but don't expect the last chapter for at least a week. Here's a longer-than-I-thought-it-would-be-chapter.

This is a slight crossover with chapter three, so feel free to reread that one if it helps you make sense of some of the situations.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Eames is twenty-six today. He's spent the last four years traveling around the United States, hoping to find a place to call home.<p>

He keeps to himself, although he does make casual conversation with his apartment neighbors from time to time.

("Oh, are you new? I don't see you around here.")  
>("I've lived here for a few months, so yes ma'am.")<br>("Oh! English, right? I've been there. Beautiful place. What brings you here?")  
>("Just wanted to try something new.")<p>

He's in Los Angeles because he wants to know if the hype about the city is really true. So far he's not sure what he thinks of it. It reminds him of London, of his birthplace, through the sight of bums and drugs and stray animals scattered on the side-streets. But there's also a constant whir of complexity. Everyone is always doing something, alarms are always wailing, horns always honking, and the unceasing hum of different languages melding together makes for a sort of music unlike anything he's heard before.

(It's here that he truly begins to observe _people_.)

He sits on the corner of 7th Street and watches as the people pass him by. When he begins, he follows their movement with his entire body, twisting and turning to see where they disappear into his blind spots. However, this soon stops when the fifth person to notice flips him off and charges him while screaming obscenities and using her purse as a shield.

(It's a little old lady. He'd laugh if he weren't so terrified. It's painstakingly obvious that she's survived this long here for a reason.)

(He's a little more nonchalant about his viewings afterwards.)

As a twenty-six year old, Eames doesn't celebrate his birthday. He's not even sure if this is the right day; all he knows is that this is the day they honored back in London, so it must be right, right?

(Not that he cares either way. Another year gone by just means another year closer to death. He's not morbid. He's a realist.)

Eames, although he's changed locations, doesn't really change his identity. He still steals, but not like before. He pickpockets, choosing people that have the money to spare. He focuses on one specific person, reads their expressions and body language. He learns to differentiate between the people who wear expensive looking clothes just to feel good about themselves even though they lack money, and those who wear whatever they want because they can _afford _to buy whatever they want.

(They hold themselves differently. The people faking it walk too loosely, too relaxed. They always appear to be trying too hard and constantly have a look in their eye that screams, "Don't look too deeply into me. I'm not what I seem.")

As a twenty-six year old, Eames calls his dad.

(He keeps in touch, sort of. He calls for holidays and to see how everyone is. Everyone being his dad and Amelia.)

("Happy birthday," his dad strains over the phone. "You don't call as often as you used to.")  
>(He calls at least once a month, if he can. "I'm sorry.")<br>("How are you? You're staying safe? Keeping your eyes out for muggers?")  
>(Eames sighs, and laughs slightly. He's sure his father doesn't think that people should be protecting themselves from him, even though he isn't a violent thief. "Dad, I'm fine. I'm staying at a lovely apartment complex. I'm keeping out of trouble.")<br>("What about a job? Have you found a job?")  
>("Not entirely, but I'm thinking about working with money." Honest enough.)<p>

The clatter of the city increases slightly as a group of high school teens pass by.

("What's that noise? Where are you? Are you at a bar?" his dad asks.)  
>("No, no. I'm walking around, enjoying the nice weather." A boy stumbles into Eames and as soon as he's able to push himself off the ground, breaks off into a run to catch up with his group.)<br>("And you're on the phone?" his dad continues. "Pay attention to your surroundings! I won't have my only child die at the hands of some stranger because he wasn't taking notice.")  
>(Eames laughs. "I'm fine." He shoves his hand into his pocket, and frowns when he doesn't feel the bulge of his wallet. "Oh, bloody hell.")<br>("Eames?")  
>("Bollocks. I have to go. You got me mugged, dirty old man," he jokes. "I gotta go inform a teacher that their student needs detention. I'll call you later.")<br>("Later meaning in three months, right?")  
>("When I can.")<br>("Stay safe. I'll tell Amelia you say hi. She misses hearing from you. You should call her.")  
>("I will, dad.")<br>("Oh! Before I forget, I wanted to tell you something.")  
>("Yes?")<br>("That Millington boy, uh, Frederick, right? The really dodgy one.")  
>("What about him?")<br>("They, the police, found his body outside his brother's trailer. I've been hearing that he overdosed on something, but not much information is getting out.")

Eames lets out a shaky breath. He doesn't speak for a few moments.

("Thank you for letting me know.")  
>("I just," his dad starts softly, "I know that you were friends. I wanted to let you know before you found out some other way.")<br>("I'm not sure I would call what we had a friendship, but we were…something, yes. I really…I should go.")  
>("The funeral is in three weeks.")<br>("I don't think I'll be going, but you can send my regards. I'm going to hang up now.")  
>("I love you, Eames. Come visit sometime.")<br>("Love you, too. Goodbye dad.")  
>("Bye son.")<p>

He doesn't cry; he's in too much shock to do that.

Instead, he makes his way over to his apartment, where he takes a shower and changes into the first thing he sees. He then makes his way to the nearest bar.

He sits in the back because it makes him more comfortable. No one comes over to ask him how he is, which he's thankful for. He's not sure how he'd answer, anyways. He'd be lying if he said he was surprised by this turn of events, but it's shocking all the same.

(He's vaguely reminded of his mother's death. He knew it would happen, but that doesn't mean he was prepared when it did.)

(He then mentally kicks himself for comparing Frederick to his mum because he honestly doesn't care that Freddie is gone.)

That's the revelation that shocks him the most. He feels that he _should_ care, he _should _feel some sort of remorse, but he just feels…the same as before.

("Are you alright?" a young lady, easy on the eyes, with a forgettable face, asks him. "You've been staring at the same spot on the table for the last twenty minutes.")  
>(He smiles sweetly at her. "I'm fine, ta. Just thinking.")<br>("Would you like me to buy you a drink? You look like you could use one.")  
>("No, no thank you.")<p>

She nods, and thankfully says nothing else as she walks away.

Eames trains his eyes on the door, and watches as people enter and exit at a fairly consistent pace. He narrows his eyes as a clearly distraught man walks in. His clothes look too large and his hair is disheveled and a quick glance at his face makes Eames think he's cried recently. He observes as the other man orders drink after drink, barely taking the time to breathe between shots.

It's the fact that he looks too young to be at a bar that makes Eames get up and walk over.

(Alcohol poisoning doesn't seem like a very good way to end anybody's day.)

He sits on the stool next to him, taking in the figure.

He starts to open his mouth, to say something along the lines of, "Don't kill yourself," or, "Maybe you should spend some of that money on food instead of booze."

The dark-haired man beats him to the punch, though.

("You hava pretty face.")  
>(Eames sighs quietly. "Much appreciated, darling.")<br>("I'm not gay.")  
>("Never said you were. Neither am I." He can see how the darling might have given that effect.)<br>("Your shirt's disgustin'.")  
>(Eames scoffs. "As is your attitude, dear. But that didn't stop you from talking to me, did it? Are you here for the same reason I am? This guy I grew up with, bloody terrible bloke, overdosed on drugs and I just found out today, of all days." Why is he talking? He should shut up, but he can't. The guy is plastered. He probably won't even remember any of this. "It's not like we were close, and the strange thing is that the only thing I really can think about is that I owe him a lighter. And then some dodgy character stole my wallet." He groans. "What a daft way to spend a birthday, wouldn't you say? What's your story?")<br>(The man is silent, eyes slightly glazed over.)  
>("You haven't heard anything I've said, have you?")<br>("Yeah, sure. I have.")  
>("Why am I here?")<br>("To distract twenty-two year olds from feeling numb with your atrocious outfit that makes me feel like putting a bullet through both of our heads because it makes me want to hurl and puking sounds awful right now and obviously you're delusional if you think it's okay to go anywhere in that get-up?")  
>("Sorry darling for putting on the closest thing and coming down here to forget things.")<br>("What are you forgetting?")  
>("Myself," Eames says half-truthfully. "You?")<br>("Myself," he parrots.)

They're both silent. Eames turns his attention towards the bartender, preparing to order a drink when the man next to him gives him a weak slap. It shocks him more than anything, but he still cries out.

("Ow! Bloody hell, what was that for?")  
>("Hm? Wha?")<br>("You hit me, you fuck.")  
>("Sorry. Imma little drunk.")<p>

Obviously. Does this guy not have a ride home? There's no way he's driving back to wherever he came from when he's this plastered. Eames will not be responsible for some random stranger's death or mutilation.

("I'd say so. Let's get you out of here.")

He pulls out a wad of cash from the stranger's wallet (his had been taken, after all, and it wasn't like he was going to pay for some alcoholic's addiction with his own money), and drags him to the bus stop down the street.

This is where the man oh-so-conveniently pukes on him and passes out in a heap, somehow missing the puddle of vomit.

("Bloody fuck! Christ, mate!")

(Those were his favorite shoes.)

He's not heartless, and he waits for the bus to make sure the guy gets somewhere. Someone must be missing him. Plus, he really wants to get home and the bus stops off by his apartment.

He props the passed out drunk on a seat, and watches as he slumps over to the window, which supports his weight as his body bends at what looks to be an uncomfortable angle.

(Eames silently hopes that the man's house is on the other side of town. _Wanker_.)

The bus halts where he needs to get off. With one last look at the still prone and silent young man (he reads so much pain and loss on his face, his eyes squeezed shut rather than relaxed, rolling around behind the skin of his eyelids. Nightmare, most likely, Eames thinks), he stands up.

(Probably the reason he went to the bar in the first place.)

He doesn't like that look, and without really thinking, moves his hand to smooth down the hair of the other. He flinches his hand back as the man groans, and quickly gets off the bus, sincerely hoping no one saw.

(If anyone did, they don't say anything.)

Eames is twenty-six and carting around drunken strangers because it's better than feeling the same, despite changes.

As a twenty-six year old, Eames wishes himself a bloody happy birthday, and he almost means it. And that's something that confuses him the most.

* * *

><p>AN: Read, review, etc etc.

Thank you thank you thank you.

Peace and Love,  
>SIS<p> 


	10. Beginnings Eames

A/N: LAST PART! D= I'm so sad to see this story finished. I'm seriously considering writing a sequel, or, at the very least, a coda or two to tie up loose ends. This is a slight cross-over with chapter four, for reasons you'll see.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Eames is twenty-nine.<p>

As a twenty-nine year old, he lives by the motto: "What the _fuck _did I do with my life?"

And, as a twenty-nine year old, he answers himself with a wry laugh.

(Nothing much, really, thanks for asking.)

Word has gotten around that he may or may not be willing to 'help' people out.

(He's looking into the business of making fake identification cards, in other words.)

At the moment, he's simply creating them for lonely teenagers and underage students who want to get a drink or go to a club. He attempted to do a passport, which didn't end as well as he'd hoped.

(He thinks he might have a scar from the broken dishes thrown at him by the angry customer when he found out Eames had spelled his name wrong.)

He really didn't see how this was his fault; he told the customer to speak more slowly. Arse.

This doesn't mean his revenue has diminished.

He's back in Los Angeles after a two year vacation (of sorts) where he traveled across the world.

(The world being the eastern coast of Africa and parts of Western Europe.)

For a brief while, he was in England, again, but didn't go visit any graves. He did say hi to his dad, however, and managed to get ahold of Amelia.

("You've grown so much.")  
>("It's good to see you, Millie.")<br>("You're not staying," she says knowingly.)  
>("No, no I won't be.")<br>(She tilts her head. "You do have a home? Or something?")  
>("Or something." Eames smiles. "I haven't…I haven't found a place to settle down, yet.")<br>("You always were a free-spirit, Eames. I sincerely hope you're able to find something to keep you down. Someone.")

His conversation with his dad goes more like this:

("You need a passport.")  
>("I have one already, dad." (He has five, actually. For safety's sake.))<br>("Come visit more often.")  
>("I will, dad.")<p>

California is…nice, he supposes. It's sunny and it rains occasionally and there's crime sprees just like everywhere else in the world. But it's still not home.

(Nothing ever is.)

At twenty-nine, Eames starts to wonder if he truly has a home.

(He doesn't consider himself a vagabond. He guesses _restless _is the best word.)

(_Alone_.)

It's not as if he hasn't dated or slept around. He's met plenty of women and brought them back to his apartment, along with one man. (But that wasn't really on purpose. And there wasn't actual penetration involved; just quick and messy handjobs where the other guy got off first and decided that was enough and left Eames lying in bed, hard as a rock.)

The stranger, bless his heart, leaves a note with what Eames assumes is his number and an asymmetrical winking face emoticon.

(_How_ _cute_, Eames thinks blandly.)

Eames merely turns it over and uses the other side to write a list of things he needs from the grocery store.

He takes a bus there, and is perusing the aisles for peanut butter (and, honestly, why is it in the baking aisle? Isn't a condiment? Bloody American shopping systems.), when he hears the soft lilt of an accented voice.

("Mon Dieu! So skinny! I can feel your bones.")  
>(A male voice speaks up. "Fast metabolism. I'm getting some things, now.")<br>("Non, non, non," she vehemently denies. "Darling, you must eat more. J'ai été là. I've_ been_there.")

Eames recognizes this voice. He's sure he's seen this woman. (He sincerely hopes it's not someone he brought home to sleep with. It's awkward enough casually stalking someone throughout the store without being sure if it's a person he's been in bed with.)

The man thanks her courteously and apologizes again.

("Non ma chérie. Come, come, come. What is your name?")  
>("Arthur. Are you French?")<p>

Eames turns the corner, and yes, he's fairly certain he knows this woman. Her name is _Margerie_, or _Marcy_ or _something _like that.

She says yes, her name is Mallorie. But please, call her Mal.

Oh, yes. He recognizes this name, now. He assisted her husband and her with fake ID's and is currently in the process of making a passport for him, Daniel or _whatever_.

(He's curious about their need for illegal documentation, but he's not one to question the ethics of his customers. He doesn't want to be known as a hypocrite.)

("Venez! Come, meet my family!")  
>("I don't thi—")<br>("Mon cheri, look at what I picked up.")  
>("Dominick Cobb. Dom.")<p>

Oh, that's right.

The man (Arthur, he said his name was?) laughs.

(Eames likes this; he's always been one to appreciate honest smiles and happiness.)

("Sorry.")  
>("Sweetheart, you're scaring le garcon. Souriez, l'amour. You look like you're <em>constipated<em>. (Eames bites back a laugh.) "James, Philippa, come out. Say hello.")

("Are you real?")  
>("What's your name?" Dom asks.)<br>("Un adepte de Thor," Mal answers. Dom smiles.)  
>("Arthur. Good to meet you. I didn't realize my wife had a brother.")<p>

And, oh, shit. He's eavesdropping on grown adults in the middle of a bleeding grocery store with a jar of peanut butter in his hand. If this isn't the epitome of awkward, he's not sure what is.

(He briefly considers buying a bottle of vodka to make him forget about his stupidity.)

Eames finishes his shopping and makes his way to the check-out aisles. He sees the young man that Mal was talking to grab his bag. He walks past Eames and…

_…and Eames does a double take._

He looks sort of familiar. Like seeing someone on the streets who looks vaguely like someone in a dream, or vice versa.

(He feels he should _know _this person.)

He's not a believer of fate. He doesn't think his life is following a specific path. But he isn't one to keep himself from figuring things out.

Now he just needs to figure out a way to introduce himself without seeming like a creep.

He pays and quickly walks after the familiar man, not sure what he's going to say, but sure there's something that draws him to the other.

("Sir! Sir, you have the wrong change," the cashier yells after him.)

He pauses in mid step, sighs, and turns back around.

("That man, do you know who he is?")  
>("No sir," the cashier answers. "I think I've only seen him come in here once. He probably shops somewhere else.")<br>("Oh.")

When he turns back around, the man is gone.

Eames is twenty-nine, and he doesn't believe in fate, but he's positive this man has some importance in his life.

And, as a twenty-nine year old, Eames thinks he might find the time to settle down.

(Africa sounds nice.)

* * *

><p>The end.<p>

Oh my goodness, thank you so much to everyone who supported me throughout this story, anonymous and not.

And a huge shout-out to catrites, who pretty much became my own personal cheerleader towards the end of the story. You all deserve all the virtual hugs in the world. ^_^ 3

Thank you again and I really hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Peace and love,  
>SIS <p>


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